Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - revelation

We decided to stay another night or two in Agia Roumeli. It’s quiet, we have nowhere else we have to be and Connie’s ankle, which is thankfully unbroken and only badly sprained, could use the rest. The surf pounds in foamy waves on the black sand, no land between us and Africa. Overnight I seem to have changed. Just a bit, but definitely changed in some deep down way. The obvious catalyst was yesterday's adventure, but maybe it's just been time. I had felt detached, isolated, dreading this anniversary of all anniversaries and yet am oddly calm about it now that it is past. It feels longer than one year. Surely it’s twenty, or a life time ago that you left me! The summer stretches out in front and I wonder how I might fill it. How long will I live? How long before I see you? Will you wait for me? Every day brings me closer to life’s end. But every day takes me farther from you and our time together, the memories already beginning to shift so that I can’t remember if it was a Tuesday or a Thursday, if you wore blue or green. I don’t know what I want more, the sharper memories of months ago, or less time up ahead to have them.

Such a maligned and feared creature is Death. Shunned by those who don’t want it, avoiding others who do. I don’t see Death as the formidable power I did as a child, but more as sort of a civil servant. I imagine Death looking at its daily ‘to do’ list and saying to itself, “Let’s see, 22 today. I’d better get an early start, two of them are going to be lingering and quite difficult.” How ironic if cruel, cold powerful Death is in reality a frail wizened old spirit in a grey suit.

“You need to date more,” Connie says out of the blue, looking at me.

Date! I tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but she continues. “I know it’s not because you like women more. We would have had sex by now if you did. You definitely need more sex in your life.”

“Connie! I had no idea you were a lesbian.”

“I am not a lesbian. I like men but I also like women. Women are so much more sympathetic and make the sex good for both, but there’s nothing like a good man!”

She makes me laugh no matter what she says. “I have decided to remain single”, I said to her. "Nice old maid Auntie.”

“Ridiculous. You are just feeling that way because your boyfriend is gone.”

I was incredulous. How did she know?

“Oh poo. I see the photos, I hear the songs, I read your book." (she reads my journal!?) "I know all about it.”

“You know nothing about it,” I flashed back angrily. How dare she read my journal!

She grasped my hands in a vice grip and bore into my eyes with hers, saying, “I love you. You are the most important person to me right now and you are in such pain. Tell me all,” in a way that caused tears to sting my eyes. She looked at me with those piercing sympathetic eyes and I couldn’t stop myself. The wall finally broke and everything just spilled out. I told her everything. I told about our last night together and how you asked me to marry you and how we wanted to keep it a secret for awhile, known only to ourselves, something we could treasure before letting it out into the world. About how you went off Friday night with three cars full of your buddies, while I went to bed early so I could meet you for breakfast the next morning. That Friday had been a perfectly golden day, the air lush, breathing green and gold, filled with unseen pulse. It was a day for wondrous things to happen.

However, it was the next day, a day of heavy clouds that it happened. I remember the smell of that gray morning, dusty and hot. A persistent blue jay calling outside my window. Sean arrived at my door instead of you, shaking. He wore a dark blue shirt that was rumpled and wet.

“There’s been an accident on Taylor Street. Some guy ran a light - it was his fault - I think he was drunk. He hit....the side. I saw it in front of me. Andrew was – he tried to swerve - but....” There was a long pause and my heart crashed inside my ribs. “Andrew's in the hospital.”

My reactions were quick and bland, the schoolteacher taking control. I kept order, reassured him. “Everything will be all right. It’s probably just a concussion or a broken bone. He’ll be fine. We’ll go down there together. Everything is ok.” He was a sobbing jelly and I hugged Andrew's best friend from childhood, feeling numb but oh so strong.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll drive. It’s okay.”

Of course it wasn’t. Your family was there and some others I didn't recognize, some of the guys you were with last night, all standing in little groups or holding each other and crying. I looked around confused, swept into the keening circle.

“But where’s Andrew?” I asked. “Where is he now? I don’t understand. What room is he in?”

No one said anything. I persisted, feeling hysteria rising. “Where is he?” We were guided down a long corridor that smelled of bleach and into a small dark room. Still no one said anything and I turned to Sean and stamped my foot impatiently, “What is this, Sean? Where’s Andrew?”

He didn’t even look at me when he said quietly, “I… don’t think he made it.”

Whirring sounds then nothing. It was like I was in a vacuum. I could see but I couldn’t hear. I stared in front of me, Sean suddenly invisible. What did he mean? What happened? Andrew can’t be – He must be just hurt, injured – not –. I couldn’t even think it. Someone from the hospital came into the room and said in a quiet voice that a decision had to be made about what to do with the body. The body! Your body! My God, can it be they were really talking about you? That you weren’t sick in some hospital bed, or about to shuffle into that room on crutches. Searing pain punched me in the middle of my body and washed over me as realization hit. I broke away from the cloying and clutching group of strangers sobbing. I couldn’t stay there. I had to do something. What could I do? My body started to shake and I could hear the edge in my voice. “I’ve got to go.” I had to get out of there.

I can't even remember getting to the car, or driving out to the hills. Climbing higher and higher. Feeling claustrophobic, I left the confines of the car, somewhere, and started to walk. Along lanes, down the middle of roads, through meadows, under groves. Oblivious of everything but the rhythm of my feet walking, walking. Completely unaware of how hot it was or what was around. And yet I can still remember the smell of the earth under the trees, the sound of leaves moving in the hot air, a dog barking in the distance. A buzzing plane. A lawnmower somewhere, one of those big ones you drive. I had no idea where I was, I just had to walk. I walked for miles and hours, ending up back in town, back at my apartment somehow, long after the sun had set. How did I know where to go? Throughout the entire night I continued to pace, in a circle. I went through the living room into the dining area, through the little kitchen across the hall and into the bathroom, then through the other bathroom door into the bedroom and out in the living room again. Around and around and around. I didn’t answer my phone, I don’t even know if it rang. Just walking around and around and around. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.

My words came out to Connie in a rush. I didn’t realize how easily it would just flow out of me after having been kept inside for so long. Putting it into words made the emotions flood in all over again. My face was hot and streaming but I couldn’t stop until I’d finished. It felt like I was hearing someone else; it was my voice, but it didn’t seem like me talking. Unloading to her, I heard myself for the first time in a year. We both cried like babies.

Connie put her arms around me and rocked me so tenderly as I shook uncontrollably, huge wracking sobs loosened from some imprisonment, all control lost. After my heaving cries became just tears, she pushed me back, her hands on my shoulders, staring into my streaming eyes. “The ancient Greeks said dead loved ones drink the blood of their live lovers. That way they stay alive in the heart and mind. The more dear the loved one the greater amount of blood is drunk. Your Andrew is drinking well. He is awash!”

She held me again until I was empty, a shell of flesh, all emotion drained. And stangely calm. I thought about what she said. Do I believe in life after death? I don’t know. I want to, I need to – the alternative is just too awful right now. We sat silent, watching the sun set and the moon rise until we got too cold.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - trial by trail

The Samaria Gorge trail starts high in the hills, and our bus passed tiny villages clinging to the sides of cliffs on our way up to the trailhead. It pitched along at high speed and I flicked the curtain aside to see what the landscape was like. On one side a steep rocky mountain with boulders supported far too many others precariously. On the other side of the narrow road was an equally steep plunge down to rocks and rivers. I looked up to see a village impossibly high above us and then we would pass it and I’d see it again way below as we curved around in our climb. We’d swerve to avoid a boulder on the road, bounced through potholes the size of small cars and swung around hairpin turns past collections of little shrines, testament to the lack of guardrails. I was mesmerized by the landscape, and both petrified and thrilled to think how easily I might become a permanent part of it.

The inhospitable Gorge saved Crete in the Second World War. German soldiers couldn’t get through it without being picked out by Greek gunners hiding along its narrow length. It’s deep too, cliffs rising straight up, the gorge forming a thin narrow scar across the lower half of the island. By the time we'd reached the start point, we were the only ones left on the bus. We'd barely got off when the bus slammed its door and dashed off on its downward climb as we began our own downward climb, following a narrow, gravelly ledge. It seemed to go on forever, and our knees started to feel the fatigue of descending a steep uncertain trail, when it finally leveled out at the river. We carried a light load having left most of our things in Hania, a good thing with the many crossings we had to take through the river’s strong current, taking our shoes off and carrying them to keep them dry each time. Despite a hot, stiff breeze, the water was so cold my feet quickly became numb. Even though we'd been prepared through the warnings we'd received, we were surprised at the height of water. Guidebooks describing this trail mention the occasional need to wade through water, but some of this was thigh high and very swift, requiring slow and very deliberate steps to avoid losing balance against the current. The sun followed us the whole way although we barely saw it, the cliff sides rising steeply to reveal only a little patch of sky above. Its beauty was stunning and I caught myself stopping and just looking up at a line of blue sky far away.

During one river crossing we rounded a corner and a sharp gust of wind hit us square on, sending us sprawling onto the slippery rocks. Thankfully it was at a low part of the river and I didn’t get very wet, although my tailbone sure hurt. Connie fared worse, falling heavily and on her knee, twisting an ankle sharply. She yowled in pain. I looked around for assistance but of course there was no else near. We hadn't met one other person on the trail. I guess everyone else was better at following local advice as to conditions than we were. Connie tried to stand but sank back down trembling, not able to put weight on her left foot at all. Her face was white.

“Bastard! How am I supposed to walk with this? This bastard river and its bastard rocks.”

I took comfort in the fact that she was still not speechless. But how would she be able to complete the rest of the demanding route? I couldn’t carry her.

No more reveries. I tightly wrapped a tee-shirt around her knee and took her pack. Looking around I spied a stick of wood that would do for a cane and helped her up. Time was getting on and we had a long way to go, so I threw her arm around my shoulders and we slowly hobbled forward.

It was a spectacular place and there were times when I was grateful for rest stops so I could just take it in. All day we moved slowly forward, a seemingly endless shuffle over rocks, around bends, through water. For a brief time just past midday the wind stilled and the sun shone straight down on us, hot and severe, but it soon passed behind the cliff face above and the its shadow gradually climbed up the oppostie cliff. Connie kept up a drift of rhetorical conversation as we bumbled along, which didn't require me to respond in any way and so was of great comfort despite it being a rambling soliloquy on the uncertainness of her future and difficulties in finding someone appropriate with whom to mate. The trail seemed to go on and on. One good thing about a gorge, you can’t get lost. After a few hours the cliffs softened a bit and the light changed just as we came upon the most romantic abandoned village, stone walls overgrown with vines and old olive trees laden with fruit in a last bid to propagate the species. Mangy sheep wandered here and there, spoiled in the amount of lush grass they could choose from. The empty houses must have sheltered Greeks in the war. Now they looked out with hollow windows, walls slowly settling closer and closer to ground level from time and neglect. I thought maybe we could stay the night under cover, so that Connie’s leg could rest, but she demanded to move on. I am afraid to look at her ankle: it must be swollen and purple, but maybe she’s right to move it. The sooner it gets looked at by someone who knows about such thing as fractures and broken bones the better.

As the sun moved down behind the lowering hills I tried to convince Connie as well as myself there was still ample light to follow the now grassy trail. But we were soon running out of such comfort. What would happen if the light faded before we reached the end? There was no way we could follow this track in the dark. My shoulders hurt carrying two packs and most of Connie’s weight, so we our progress was slow, making me even more anxious about the time. Connie talked less and I worried more.

The gorge widened a bit as we rounded a corner, and suddenly before us there hung a huge moon, almost full, just rising dead ahead. I couldn’t believe the light it provided, I almost had to blink against its brightness.

Connie said rather palely “You see? The moon goddess is watching over us.”

I said a silent prayer to the moon goddess and all other goddesses that might be listening as we continued on. Eventually we emerged at a beach and small village. I set Connie down on a bench and went off to find a room. There was no one about. I knocked on several doors but there was no answer at any of them. Is this another abandonesd village? Standing there feeling a little perturbed, I discerned noises coming from a large house at the end, where a weak light shone out, and I sooon found everyone who must live in the place inside one crowded and lively café-bar. Or at least every man who lived in the place. About 3 dozen male eyes swivelled in my direction as I opened the door. Someone whistled. I swallowed and asked in my best Greek if anyone had a room for rent and, in a booming voice, the landlord said “I have a room”, winked broadly and pointed upstairs, which sent roars of laughter through his clientele. My cheeks started to get hot with embarrassment but I had no time for this. I interrupted his jocularity to tell him about my injured friend and asked if he had something on ground level, knowing full well that when assistance was really needed Greek men will be the first to leap up and provide it. Sure enough, a collection of drunk men poured outside to look for my friend as I led them back along the beachfront to the bench where she rested. Four of them picked her up and carried her back to the café bar. Connie gingerly rested her leg on another chair, batted her eyelashes, and attention was forthcoming from every man in the place. This she received rather regally and with requests for practical demonstrations of affection such as food and wine. Within minutes a large plate of dolmades and a jug of white wine were placed in front of us. Despite my exhaustion I smiled to myself. The Connies of this world will always get by in life despite any expressed doubt.

After eating, Connie giggled and laughed with all the attention, happy to be the star surounded by adoring satellites. I needed to release my pent up anxiety so snuck outside, leaned against a wall and looked up at our saviour moon goddess which now shone its light on an abandoned chapel high above the cliff. The cross on its roof split the moon’s sallow rays and an ethereal light shot out towards the sea. Despite being exhausted, I looked at it with wonder.

I’m looking at ruins a little differently these days. I don’t know when the change occurred, I suspect it was in small increments, but I am cheered by them. I think of all those people who lived and loved so many centuries ago. Building houses, creating cultures, hurting and healing each other. And now all that’s left of those thousands and thousands of lives is a dusty piece of column or a cracked clay pot. When I see it written out like this I think anyone else would read it and say “This cheers you up? You’re nuts.” But it does. The pain and insecurity of those people’s lives has moved on. Their work and toil brought them further to their destiny. Their love for each other has produced ancestors that might be alive today. Life moves forward, slowly, inevitably, but forward. No matter what happens in life it ends and pain is gone.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - dreaded anniversary

I’m feeling apprehensive. Tomorrow marks the day, exactly one year since you left me. How will I feel? I told Connie I needed an adventure. The Samaria Gorge will be perfect. A late spring meant the waters are still higher than usual. Apparently it’s strenuous, and a bit dangerous. Perfect.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - mon Zeus!

Connie and I have shared days filled with giggles, confessions, and plans. I feel 12 again, except I was never this way when I was 12. We even shared a pair of silver earrings, each taking one as a token, the image of a sun on one side and the moon on the other, promising that the one would go to the other only upon death. I found out her mother is Finnish and her father is Dutch and she went to school in Switzerland, but she has never spend more than a year in any one place since she left at 14. She calls herself a ‘European bastard’. We talk every available moment and then crash asleep exhausted. I am not able to keep up with my journal entries and I feel I am letting you down in some way. But it’s wonderful to have someone to talk to again. I mean really talk to.

Writing doesn’t mean I am not still thinking about you all the time. I’m just doing more and thinking less. Sometimes I feel things are moving too fast and I take myself off to a quiet corner and look at your photos. I miss not having my walkman, my music. The tears still come. The ache still presides. But I can dry my tears and come back to talk. It’s different somehow. I feel different.

With torches together we have explored the dripping, eery cave above the village of Psyhro where Zeus was reputedly born. “That sexist boor” declared Connie with disgust. “What did he know about women and life? He was an idiot!” We walk for miles. Eat in every taverna on the Plain. We have both declared the village of Agios Georgios the most ugly, dwarfed by its enormous unfinished cathedral. There are so many unfinished buildings in Greece. Connie told me why. Taxes are paid only when they are finished, so always the top floor is left incomplete. What you might call a loophole.

Connie is in a quandary about what next to do with her life and asks my advice. It feels good to be asked for my advice. I question her, “What would you love to do that you haven’t done already?”

“Nothing. I do what I want when I want with whoever I want. Why should I wait?”

“Well, ok, let’s start with your skills and talents. What are you good at?”

“I am an excellent liar. The best. Go on, ask me anything and I will lie for you.”

I laughed and told her she should be an international spy. She liked that. After a few days we left the Plain for Iraklio, which had little to recommend it, except a stall in the market that makes the best yogurt in Greece.

I feel like a large weight is slowly lifting off of me. Is it because of Connie? Is it because time seems to be passing quicker? Or because I have settled with the knowledge that I am going to have to live anyway, so may as well try to enjoy it a bit more? I can’t tell. Walking and talking, shedding all sorts of feelings and thoughts with Connie I feel Greece is the most beautiful place in the world, a place of sun and wind and crashing blue surf. Mangy cats, olive oil, sweet tomatoes, fat ladies in black, flirting men. Dry white wine that tastes of pine, fresh white bread, blue shutters on white houses, honey coloured churches, furs, gold, and sponges. Fish hung on lines, excess oranges dumped in lanes. Copper paint, gold icons, pebbled mosaics. I sigh with an odd sort of pleasure. A world that holds such beauty deserves time spent living in it.

It’s all enough for me, but not for Connie. Last night she said to me, “Bah. What we need is some Greek nightlife. Come on.” We found a bar with music spilling out into the street. We drank raki. There was dancing. Two Greek youths in the tightest pants imaginable slithered up to us.

“Ah German girls. Come. Dance. Very special.”

Connie’s eyes flashed. “We are not German girls. I am speechless with anger. We do not dance with stupid Greek men. Idiots!”

Not daunted at all they stood by and one of them stroked Connie’s arm. I thought she’d go ballistic, but she looked up at him with her piercing eyes. He tried again. “Do you know my island? Do you know Symi?”

Connie said, “Yes I know Symi.”

“You like Symi?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful.” He shrugged.

“Issa dump.”

Connie laughed, which was their invitation to sit. I sipped my drink and listened to the banter, then Connie surprised me by asking, “Do you know Matala? Do you have a motorbike to take us there?”

“First you dance with us”, the arm-stroking one said.

“I’m not into threesomes tonight.” (Oh, this girl’s good, I thought.) She turned to me. “Get up. You can dance, I know you can. Look at you. You have a dancer’s body. It’s time for you to join us.”

What could I do? No protestations were acceptable. I reluctantly got up and we all joined a large circle of people holding their hands high in the air and did a sort of repetitive shuffle back and forth, faster and faster, legs kicking and laughter ringing. Back in our seats with her shining eyes she said “There you see? That was fun. Now you can’t say you didn’t get anything out of this evening.”

I have to admit it felt good to dance again.